SOCIAL TYRANNIES

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22094, 27 April 1935, Page 1 (Supplement)

SOCIAL TYRANNIES

MANY AND VARIOUS

BY LADY ADAMS

The tyrant of the sick-couch sheathes her hand in the dainty velvet glove of the sick-a-bed. Sometimes she masks it by that intolerable facial effect called " a brave, patient smile." Sometimes a hearty scowl is the patient's reaction to the world, or he goes off his food, sometimes off his speech. The interesting thing is that this sick-bed tyranny is taken seriously to-day by the psychoanalysts, and Adler practically builds his special school on it. The psychoanalysts deal gently with the tyrants; they explain that it is their way of escape. These must help themselves to bear their pain or their sleeplessness, and if that way lies over the bodies of their attendants and relations —well, the strong must never forget that this is the age of the weak, and make every possible allowance for the sufferers. A sick-couch is a great weapon. You remember the mother of the heroine in "The Pastor's Wife"? She was the spouse of a bishop, and when life became too much for the bishopess—her bishop was the kind of husband known as " exacting " —she retired to her •sofa, where, definitely and for ever ensconced among pillows and a faint wave of sick-room perfume, she dealt with her bishop in a way in which she would never have dared in her perpendicular days. The perfect example of the tyrant of the sick-couch is the wife of the author of " Sandford and Merton," Mrs. Thomas Day. Thomas had definite views as to the lady whom he deemed suitable to become Mrs. Day. He appeared to want a mixture of a Roman matron, a simple, healthy heilan' lassie, a woman of the world, and a blue-stocking. She must love a country life, must want to give her surplus money to the poor, demand no society but that of Thomas, and have beautiful, round, white arms. All this he appears to have found in one lady. But, though he knew what he wanted, apparently he did not know what he could do. One day he insisted on trying to get the better of an unbroken foal. After the funeral his wife, round white arms and all, retired to bed, pulled the curtains of her fourposter, and declined to look again at the sun. There she lay for two years, only emerging occasionally, after dark, when there was no moon, to stroll in her damp garden. Food lor Body and Mind An old gentleman I know was not well. His wife was giving a lunch-party, and, to his annoyance, did not put it off. They asked him what he would like for lunch, so he replied, like a martyr, " Oh—anything—bread and milk "if you like." The busy household took him at his word; not only that, but they forgot to give him even a spoon to eat it with. And the concoction was made in true nursery style—boiling milk poured over the cut-up bread, sugared to the cook's taste. At the end of the party a slightly guilty granddaughter looked in to see how things had gone. " Oh, grandfather, didn't they even give you a spoon?" she gasped. " No," said the angry martyr; " I managed with your grandmother's button-hodk." Then, there is the what-you-must-read tyranny. If Burton's " Anatomy of Melancholy" got itself advertised as " The Book of This Coming Second," there are many people who would assure you that they sat up half the night reading it, and that it was " sweet." The book-review clubs, so popular in America, are responsible for nearly all that book-tyranny under which American women suffer. Once a week a woman stands in every club and tears the heart out of half-a-dozen new books; and her audience, if it is docile and wants to be in the swim and in the know, either buys the books or puts in a request at the library. The really up-to-date hearers manage to get autographed copies of as many new books as possible. Then, what social tyranny is more trying than the telephone? Not all of us are guarded so that only the message itself reaches us, on paper, or through the trained lips of a! precise secretary. Few of us have the strength of mind to let the telephone ring itself tired; and there we sit, the Aunt Sally of people who, apparently, have more than all the time there is. Late Comers People always late are terrible social tyrants. In America their path is made far too easy for them. Lunch or dinner is kept waiting, along with the other guests, until tho late-comers arrive, remove wraps, make voluble excuses, greet their friends—who by this time are usually enemies—and probably wonder why the soup is half-cold and the rest of the dinner is over cooked. In Great Britain we still adhere to the quarter of an hour's grace for latecomers, and then begin the meal, preferring that two should have bad meals rather than that a round dozen should suffer. And, talking of food, is there any greater social tyranny than the deadly tyranny of those that diet and expect to find their own special diets awaiting them when they dine from home? Personally, I forgive anybody that rings up beforehand and asks gently for " a vegetable plate." Ihose not to be forgiven are the tyrants that reject tho proffered food, ask for brown bread when Melba toast is making the rounds, milk to drink instead of wine or water; above all, the tyrants that talk about their weight and how to increase oi decrease it. " She was on a diet, and never said so " is not such a stupid epitaph as one might think. Tho tyranny of clothes has gone on since Bible days. Life could not have been all gas and gaiters for the Queen of Sheba. But when old, old women felt it was needful for them to have their skirts cut to the knees, and let a stunned world see their poor, shrunken legs, or their too-fat ones, they must have felt that lile was a hard affair. The Letter of Introduction An insidious social tyranny is the letter of introduction. The receiver versed in the ways of these letters can gauge fairly well what degree of hospitality, friendliness or help is expected by tho writer, even without any assistance from a private letter about the stranger. But often the strangers that present these letters are pertinacious, and having presented the letter go on presenting themselves. It was the most determined woman I ever met that said to me, " Often one letter of introduction has taken me right through a whole country. It all depends on getting absolutely the perfect beginning." J know one country in which one letter did the trick for her. It was New Zealand. The first tea led to the first lunch, which led to the first dinnerparty, all sandwiched botween long motor drives. Then came the first country-visit—you can all finish the tale; iirst the North Island, then the South; roses, roses all the way. But, as 1 said, she was a determined woman, and a clever one. As I say constantly, New Zealand is the most hospitable country in this world. Still " the Riviera all winter, Italy in the spring, the London season —and we've got to go to Scotland in August," 1 once heard a woman say. Some social tyranny there!